Chapter Text
“Uh, Mr. Stark?”
“Go, kid.” Tony is too focused on his new design to pay Peter much attention on the phone. F.R.I.D.A.Y. had tried multiple times to get his attention — in the end, it was only Peter’s name being thrown around that made Tony pick up. “And make it quick. I’ve got a quiche in the oven and I’m trying to debug this code before the oven goes off or else the house will burn down.”
Peter seems to hesitate despite the panic in his voice. There’s whirring in the background, like some sort of factory, but Tony is focused on more important things. “A…a quiche?”
Someone laughs. On Peter’s end. From his Spider-Man phone. A man’s voice, too close to the receiver, meaning too close to Peter’s face.
Now Tony is paying attention. “Who is that?”
“Less important than why you’re making a quiche.” There’s the thwip of the web shooters and the white noise gets a little quieter.
“It’s family dinner,” Tony says defensively. That doesn’t explain why he’s trying to cook. He never cooks. He’s been banned from cooking. “You said you were coming. You don’t like quiche?”
“I love your quiche, Mr. Stark,” Peter says solemnly, so seriously Tony thinks it’s at Tony’s expense. It’s often hard to tell with Peter, one of the few people who would genuinely say that sort of thing. “I’m sure your quiche is great. And it’s a totally normal, healthy thing for you to be doing.”
Tony had an anxiety attack from forcing himself to take a break after fifteen hours in the lab. He didn’t know how to make a quiche but throwing shit in a bowl was something to do with his hands and making his brain slow down enough to read a recipe was…helpful.
It’s going to be a terrible quiche. There is a non-zero chance he put an entire eggshell in there. He doesn’t remember. He barely remembers turning the oven on. Maybe it’s better if he just leaves it in there to burn.
There’s shuffling on Peter’s side, friction between the mask and the receiver, more than just wind, but Peter doesn’t react to anything messing around near his face so Tony doesn’t feel the need to mention it. “If it’s the code for the kinetic shield it’s probably not bugged. You definitely added the lyrics to Metallica in one of the folders last week and got mad at me when I tried to delete it. You said it was for flavor.”
Sure enough, when Tony clicks around he sees the code is making its fight on the hill in the early days, and he deletes about three stanzas worth of 80s’ metal before he says, “I don’t think that’s the problem but thanks for the tip.”
“Of course, sir.”
They both know it’s the problem. Tony lets the program run without issue and heads back to the kitchen. “Did you have a reason to call, before you got distracted making fun of my quiche?”
“I would never.” Peter sounds flustered. “I mean, make fun of your quiche. I’ll love the quiche. I do have a reason to call. Not that I wouldn’t just call you for fun or anything, but not making fun—”
“—You’re allowed to make fun of me, kid,” Tony tells, trying to figure out how to turn on the light in the oven without asking F.R.I.D.A.Y. out loud and tipping Peter off. “We’re friends now. You can call me whenever you like.”
Peter is so quiet, he might be dead.
“Hello.” Tony snaps in front of the phone. “You still with me, Lightyear?”
“Yeah, wow. We’re friends?”
“You’re at official hold-my-hair-back-while-I-vomit status, kid,” Tony says, like that’s the worst thing he can think of. Like Peter has done dirtier for him already. Like Tony wouldn’t kill for him, or kill for Peter not to see him like that. Semantics. “Now tell Daddy your problems.”
Peter chokes.
Maybe they’re not ready for Daddy jokes. Maybe that’s something Tony should keep under his thumb. He’ll blame it on the fact that he’s not sure what day it is or how many hours he’s been awake. He does, however, find the light for the oven. “Quiche looks great, by the way.”
“I’m really glad, Mr. Stark, okay, I’ll be right over okaythanksbye!”
It’s weird, but not the weirdest thing Peter has ever said or done. Tony doesn’t particularly care when the call ends, more invested in the lovely aroma he has created with his own hands, but then Peter calls back.
“Sorry I hung up on you,” Peter says, almost breathlessly, before Tony can even say hello. “I didn’t mean to invite myself over or anything. Is it okay if I come by?”
“Peter,” Tony says patiently, “you’re invited over for dinner every week.”
“Yeah, but it’s like, four.”
That other voice — vaguely familiar, so Tony assumes it’s another superhero he’s met a time or two — cuts in through the white noise of Peter flinging through the city on a tightrope. “He said it was fine. Who cares?”
It’s more aggressive than Tony likes people talking to Peter, but Peter snips back without prompting, “come on, man. I don’t want to be rude.”
Tony straightens, throwing the dish towel over his shoulder. He half-expects it to smell like motor oil but instead it just smells like must and hand soap. “Are you bringing over a third?” Tony asks.
A sharp laugh from Peter, almost hysterical. “Uh, sort of? You’ll—you’ll see. Okay, I really have to go—stop doing that!—I’m hanging up now, goodbye!”
“Bye, kid.” Absent. Seriously, where has he heard that voice before?
Tony leaves a window open and tells F.R.I.D.A.Y. to initiate Peter Protocols — he’s had a squashed spider plastered against his bulletproof windows too many times to count. He’s surprised when he gets a buzz from the receptionist, telling him Peter opted to take the more traditional route.
The elevator rolls up and he hears a frantic, “Mr. Stark?” which he replies to with a grunt.
Peter runs into the kitchen. His hair is disheveled and his civvies are tugged on haphazardly. He looks harried, completely at odds with most of the business people that mill around in Tony’s lobby. Tony can see the red line on Peter’s skin from the neck of his suit, wrapped around like a ribbon. He blinks.
Peter also blinks, staring at Tony like whatever has him panicking is momentarily forgotten in the face of — “Did you take apart the oven?”
Tony holds up the heating element like Simba being offered to Pride Rock. “I’m making improvements.” He hasn’t slept in 40+ hours.
Gently, Peter takes the element out of Tony’s hands like it might explode at any moment. “How’s the quiche?” he asks cautiously, like an adult leading a child to an answer. Tony resents that.
“What quiche?” He snorts at Peter’s terrified expression and then waves vaguely over towards the counter where his culinary creation sits out, cooling. He gets back to poking around in the oven. It’s a good thing he never uses this. Maybe he could turn it into an extra wine cooler. What was the other thing he needed? Storage space? That’s too easy. Where did he put the heating element?
“Oh, boy.” Peter tugs at the neck of his t-shirt like it’s too tight. “This is going to really mess you up right now, I think, sir.”
The elevator dings.
Tony completely forgot that Peter was bringing company. Oh, shit. “Did you guys need this?” He’s pretty sure he has another oven in this building. He might be able to install one pretty quickly if necessary. This one has a grander purpose. He just isn’t sure what it is yet.
“What’s the deal, sweetheart?” someone calls from the entryway, and Tony bristles at the pet name. “You just abandoned me, left me on my lonesome? Normally that happens the morning after.”
Peter grabs Tony by the hand and pulls him to his feet. Tony blames his indignation and the lack of sleep on why he lets himself be manhandled so easily. In reality, it’s just as likely that the guilt on Peter’s face is enough to make him pliant and confused. “So, listen. This wasn’t my fault, okay? And like, don’t freak out.”
Tony is too focused on the oven to freak out. He’s actually a bit focused on Peter’s hand right now; it’s very warm with thin fingers, but there are burns and abrasions on the skin that weren’t there before, probably. “Most things are your fault.” He rubs his thumb over a cut that’s already scabbing. Peter clears his throat and pulls them both to greet their third.
Tony isn’t sure what he’s looking at. There are sooty footprints on his carpet, and someone very familiar is toeing off their shoes by the elevator door. The shoes are also familiar — Tony remembers having ones just like that back in the 90s. The figure straightens, and all Tony can think to say is, “that’s my shirt.”
He still has that shirt. It’s worn and faded in the back of his closet because it doesn’t fit anymore, but the concert was too good to let the merchandise die in peace.
Peter slaps a palm to his forehead. “Yeah,” he says with a tired sigh.
That’s not all that’s his. Those are Tony’s shoes, and his pants, and also his eyes and nose and mouth and smirk, one he hasn’t seen in a very long time. His hair. His face, before the wear and tear of being alive made any kind of impression.
Tony — it’s Tony, or some memory thereof — digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looks actual Tony up and down appraisingly. It’s incredibly performative. Tony remembers doing that a million times, just to set nerves on edge. “This is what I have to look forward to?”
Peter grimaces. “You said you’d be nice.”
Younger Tony sways, slinging an arm over Peter’s firm shoulders, and that appraising look turns a little darker. “I believe what I said is that I can be very nice, with incentive.”
“Oh my god.” Tony sits down on the couch. That’s his face, but smooth and silly and simple. “It’s me. It’s actually me.”
“Sort of.” Peter licks his lips and runs a finger through his hair. It’s casual, like he doesn’t notice the way that Hornier, Younger, Terrible Tony is looking at him like a piece of meat, or the way those fingers are pressing into the red line around Peter’s neck. “He’s…a different…Tony.”
He looks pretty similar to Tony, from the way he’s posturing to the smarmy aura he accidentally emits, which is terrible. Younger Tony was terrible. A party animal. A terrible influence. Arguably much worse than Present Tony, and he’s pretty bad as it is.
This is going to be a disaster. They have to get rid of him and that means Tony is going to need to think about how to get rid of him.
Tony looks at the wrench he’s still clutching in his hands. “Alright.” He grunts, standing up, and Peter starts like an animal in the wild waiting to be attacked. “I’m going to take a nap.” He presses the wrench into Peter’s hands. “Don’t let him on the couch, he likes to bite things.”
Peter startles, nearly dropping the wrench. “W-what?”
“Wait.” Tony’s head hurts. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., who is in the building that’s mildly responsible?”
“I’m responsible,” Peter argues, even as he doesn’t notice Younger Tony slipping fingertips under the collar of his shirt.
F.R.I.D.A.Y. saves Tony from having a coronary. “Mr. Barnes and Ms. Romanov are both in their rooms presently.”
That, at least, shocks his younger self enough that he stops pushing how far he can get before crossing the line into fondling. “Wh—”
Tony takes some pride in not answering the obvious question. “Send them here to chaperone.” He jabs a finger at his younger self, who is currently looking curiously at the ceiling, trying to parse Tony’s AI. “Don’t piss on the furniture.”
He gets a lazy salute for his trouble, and a gaping fish expression from Peter, and then he makes his way to the bedroom and collapses.
It’s not a time travel thing, according to Peter. Or, rather, according to Bruce who had videoconferenced at length with Peter about the situation while Tony slept off his laborious quiche making for approximately 12 hours. He completely missed family dinner. Peter assured him the quiche had no eggshell at all.
Dr. Strange has also been called, for all the good that will do. Tony doesn’t like having another snarky bastard in his territory. There’s only so much hot air in the world and if Dr. Strange takes up half of it then Tony is liable to die. He’s thankful he missed the phone call, even if hearing Peter ramble on about magic makes his eye twitch.
“It’s not my favorite. And honestly, the giant multidimensional ticking time bomb in the university basement relied mostly on physics. I’m pretty good at physics!” Peter rambles, pacing back and forth in the lab. His hands are flying and his words get jumbled, like he’s waiting for someone to stop him so he needs to say everything all at once. “But I stole the specs and there was a lot of stuff that just, like, isn’t physics.”
The blueprints are swiped upwards onto the display, and Tony sees a mess of a machine surrounded by symbols he came across while doing research on the Tesseract. He grimaces and takes a long sip of his coffee. “Neat.”
It’s not an impressive design. The specifications themselves are basic, and a quick look at the drawings tells Tony two things: 1) it’s meant to be some sort of homing device, and 2) their resources were under some sort of limit. There are several areas where materials used, while expensive, aren’t cutting edge or even industry standard. Tony isn’t sure whether that’s due to sourcing issues — for a likely illegal, glorified science experiment — or if it’s something to do with magic that Tony doesn’t care to understand. Most of the materials are available through standard retailers, or through…well. The black market doesn’t have access to the sorts of proprietary things that are being implemented now, but it has access to a couple of generations back.
It’s big, too. Difficult to hide. The size of a car and piped into the ground. Is this thing running off the school’s grid? That would cause its own problems.
“And I know how you feel about this stuff but like, it’s a giant multidimensional ticking time bomb! And it’s right there!” Peter looks pleadingly at Tony, like only affirmation will absolve him of his sins.
“Spider-Man is absolutely not the best person for this job,” Tony tells him, spinning the diagram around to get a full view of the disaster machine on his HUD. The technical components are, at the very least, impressive. He swipes his hand and the machine builds itself into something blocky, all nuts and bolts. “Someone with some crystals and a mood ring would probably be better. Maybe some smelling salts.”
“I didn’t think it would be…you know…” Peter waves his fingers. Peter has always been a little reckless, mostly with himself. Every bad thing is something to stick his fingers in, and nothing is ever so bad that he can’t handle it on his own. It’s gotten worse as he’s gotten older; nowadays, there are fewer and fewer things that Peter can’t handle. That doesn’t mean Tony is going to be happy about it, and that doesn’t mean Tony thinks this was a good idea. Sometimes, he feels like he’s the only one who is thinking at all.
“You didn’t know and you still went by yourself!?”
Peter has the good manners to look mildly cowed before he decides that Tony is full of shit. “I thought a little!”
Tony scoffs.
“Besides, I normally work alone.” Peter has turned down the offer to be an Avenger twice, and who knows how many options SHIELD has thrown his way. Tony knows the Defenders have thrown their chips Peter’s way, too, and they’re insane but they probably line up with Peter’s interests more than being a government agent. It drives Tony up the wall, that all of these people are willing to watch Peter’s back and he still sneaks out the window and goes out alone. “What was I supposed to do, huh? Pull the tin can out of retirement?”
“Yes.” Tony looks at him incredulously. “I can still fly, rookie. You know I’d come help.”
Peter’s eye twitches at the word rookie, but he knows Tony is just being an asshole. “For a casual intel op? You couldn’t even get into the science building without tripping the metal detector.”
“Boys.” Natasha is flipping through the file Peter had dutifully printed out for her while Tony took his little nap. “You’re both pretty.”
“You could have asked Nat,” Tony points out.
“I wouldn’t have come,” she says flatly without looking up from her papers.
“Oh, come on,” Peter whines.
“You, what? Got a weird feeling and climbed through some vents?” She raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like something Spider-Man can handle to me.”
“Oh, okay.” Peter breathes a sigh of relief. “That’s fine, then. Wait, that’s right. See, Mr. Stark?” He gestures wildly at Natasha. “I’m perfectly capable!”
Tony shoots daggers at Nat, unsurprised at her innocent look in response. “I know you’re capable, kid, but clearly this wasn’t just regular recon.” He runs a hand over his face and takes a drink of his coffee with a grimace. DUM-E has been adding too much cream lately but Tony doesn’t have the heart to tell him. “You brought back a physicist's wet dream. Somewhere out there Bruce is having an extremely good time.”
Peter opens his mouth, finds no response, and then shoots puppy eyes at Natasha.
“So, what?” Natasha leans forward to read the specifications, eating yogurt like nothing else matters. Tony is still in his pajamas but she’s probably already run a marathon today. She’s certainly done with both of their bullshit. “They were making a time machine?”
Tony grimaces, reading the diagnostics. “That’s old news, baby.” He runs a few scenarios and watches the machine explode nine out of ten times. “As the world’s leading knowledge of time travel, probably, this isn’t that.”
“I’m not really sure what to call it,” Peter admits. He walks over to Tony’s terminal and leans over to the keyboard, entering in one more simulation. He smells like Tony, all the toiletries he’d borrowed months ago and kept using. Tony watches Peter watching the simulation run and run and run. The tenth time, something sticks, and the display seems to tear. “But…Dr. Strange called it the Multiverse.”
There had been small tears, here and there, that have fixed themselves given enough time, but the last few made small changes that are sticking around. Peter tracked it down to the science building, and after enough reconnaissance had decided it’s a faculty science experiment gone horribly wrong. It just got worse.
“So, we just have two Tony’s now?” Natasha asks, tapping her spoon against her lip as she thinks. “Should I ring the alarm to assemble? Seems pretty universe-ending to me.”
“I miss when you were just my hot secretary,” Tony tells her. He thinks about it. “Just kidding. Your coffee was terrible. I really should have known.”
“Do you want more coffee, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, perking up and reaching for the mug in Tony’s hand. It says Freak in the Sheets with the Excel logo and Peter had left it on Tony’s desk two years ago as a gift. “I can go get you more, if you want.”
Tony pulls it out of Peter’s reach. “I’m not done,” he grouses, pushing Peter’s hands aside. “I can’t handle any enthusiasm until the first cup is finished.”
“Untrue,” Natasha says. “I’ve heard you’re plenty enthusiastic before the sun’s up.”
Peter turns the rosiest red.
“With incentive,” Tony admits, and then remembers the reason this whole situation is an issue in the first place. “Where’s Mini-Me?”
“He’s, uh.” Peter swallows, scratching the back of his neck and looking at the tile floor. “He’s settling into one of the guest rooms.”
Tony squints. “Like hell.” Peter’s a horrible liar, but it was a lost cause to begin with. He knows exactly how he was at that age. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.—”
“—Young Master Stark is currently in Peter’s temporary quarters, sir,” she answers, and Peter’s eyes widen in panic before he shoots up the stairs.
“Don’t follow me!” he shouts over his shoulder, taking the steps two at a time. “I’ll, uh—I’ll start a second pot! Finish your coffee right now, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Tony heaves out a sigh, leaning down on the console and taking a long sip of his coffee. It’s lukewarm now. He doesn’t notice. “I need this fixed right now,” he says.
“Well, Peter did say he was going to make more—”
“I mean me!” Tony snips towards Natasha, who is openly laughing at him. “Or, him. Do you have any idea how annoying I was twenty, thirty years ago?”
“I know how annoying you were five years ago,” Natasha points out. “Most of your emotional growth has happened in the last decade.”
“Thank you for noticing,” he smarms dryly. “Eat, Pray, Love really helped me find myself. That and the trauma.” He rubs his forehead and spins the display around to try and make sense of this machine. Will they have to rebuild it to return Tiny Tony back to his easy life of drugs and debauchery? “He’s just going to try to fuck all my interns and drink all the good scotch.” It’s what Tony himself would have done, back in the day.
Natasha takes a pointed bite of her yogurt.
“Oh, shit.” Tony swerves towards the stairs. “Peter?”
No answer from the kitchen.
“Peter is currently in his temporary quarters, sir,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. offers, and Natasha’s harsh laugh from the lab downstairs propels Tony through his house to Peter’s room all the faster.
He’s not sure what he’s expecting — as a younger man, Tony was likely to seduce anything that had the confidence to look him in the eye, but he never took anything that wasn’t offered. It just so happened that everyone offered. But this Tony is a different Tony. The multiverse aspect of this introduces an unknown variable.
Peter’s bedroom door is mostly shut, the latch not quite catching the doorjamb. Because Tony is an idiot and Romanov is still downstairs eating her yogurt he doesn’t consider eavesdropping on the hushed voices before he just throws the door open, full drama. “Good afternoon, boys.”
His eyes immediately fall towards the bed, which he notices looks freshly rumpled but is currently empty. The sheets are halfway on the floor, like perhaps someone had been bodily dragged out of it. Tony follows the focus line to find Younger, Hornier Tony mostly naked and pinned up against the wall. He’s soft, in a way Tony isn’t allowed to be anymore, in a way that is entirely too exposed for present company. One of Peter’s hands is holding Tony’s shoulder to the wall so hard one of the paintings hangs sideways, and the other palm is pressed against Tony’s throat, his fingers clutching the edges of his jaw. Tony is looking at Peter like he’s a surprise, the lucky kind, and their faces are so close—
“Mr. Stark!” Peter yelps, and whatever energy he’d had a moment ago bleeds out of him before Tony can put a finger on it. He flushes, trying to remove himself from a fairly intimate position and turn to face the door, but there’s a proprietary hand on Peter’s hip that grips all the harder just to keep him in place.
Tony’s eyes drop to that hand, which then leads to Peter’s ass, and then notices that perhaps their hips are a little closer than necessary. He stalks forward with a snarl, ignoring Peter’s jabbering, and pulls them apart. “What do you think you’re doing, you piece of shit?”
“Mr. Stark,” Peter huffs, but lets himself be moved backwards. The knowledge that Peter is allowing himself to be moved doesn’t mean anything to Tony. The knowledge that Peter could have moved himself and did not also doesn’t mean anything to Tony. Nothing means anything. This is a completely normal reaction.
Young Tony smirks, eyes hazy, but his lip twitches just enough that it looks like a sneer. “I’m not doing anything, okay, man?” He laughs. It rankles. “I’m just…” His eyes pointedly slide towards Peter, wide and wild — “making friends.”
Naked. He’s making friends naked. Tony Stark has never had to fool anyone in his life because people just let him do whatever he wants.
“You’re taking this whole life-altering-event pretty well if you’re feeling up boys who don’t belong to you,” Tony growls, his finger jamming into the throat of his stupid ghost come back to haunt him. He doesn’t notice the red print of Peter’s hand around his throat.
Young Tony’s face darkens. “Who does he belong to?”
“Tony,” Peter says through a sigh, and there’s a heart-rending moment before Tony realizes Peter is chastising them both and not confirming anything. There’s still a flush high on Peter’s cheeks he’s trying to hide behind one hand.
Tony still has his younger self pinned to the wall. “It doesn’t matter,” he decides, pushing the younger man roughly against the wall. The already tentative hold on the picture frame gives and Peter scuttles to catch it before the frame shatters on the hardwood.
“Some of us haven’t been sleeping all day, old man.” Young Tony lifts his chin. Tony recognizes it just fine from memories of arguing with his father. Fuck. “Some of us already did the homework and are moving on to our…extracurriculars.”
The look he shoots at Peter, the surprised mrp Peter makes, has Tony surging forward, but Peter knows him too well.
“Stop it,” he hisses, tugging at Tony’s arm and smacking him on the back of the head with the picture frame. “Both of you. Don’t go making things worse just for fun.” Bodily, he turns Tony by the shoulder and pushes him out of the room. “Let me take care of it,” he says quietly in the doorway, squeezing Tony’s arm in a way that’s meant to be comforting. His breath brushes the shell of Tony’s ear.
“Why is he naked?” Tony demands, because he’s an idiot.
“Because he’s an idiot,” Peter tells him, and then promptly shuts the door in Tony’s face. Firmly. And clicks the lock.
By the time Tony makes his way back to the lab, Natasha is washing her hands and whistling like nothing has happened. But at least she doesn’t laugh when she sees the look on Tony’s face. She’d better not.
Tony bought her that yogurt, after all.
Introducing, well, himself to the Avengers is embarrassing but hardly the most traumatizing thing Tony has ever gone through. It’s also not a ploy to get Peter and his younger self out of Peter’s room, where they’ve been ensconced since Tony was so unceremoniously dismissed this morning.
He calls up every person who might be helpful, gets an approximate ETA, and then knocks brusquely on Peter’s door. “Open up, kid.”
There’s a flurry of movement that has Tony rolling his eyes, but when Peter fumbles to open the door he’s fully dressed and only slightly flushed, so Tony thinks it’s probably fine. “M-Mr. Stark.” Peter runs a hand through his hair until it’s standing up in every direction. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Tony quirks an eyebrow.
“You live here,” Peter notes. “But like…you know. Fancy.”
His younger self snorts, and when Tony squints past Peter he sees a version of himself he hasn’t seen since his tabloid days; someone splayed out in the bedsheets with dark eyes, like he belongs there. His face is bare, young, and Tony remembers how everything back then was a challenge. There’s a space in the sheets beside him and Tony wonders if Peter was occupying it before Tony interrupted.
Well, hopefully he wasn’t interrupting anything. They were both fully clothed, although the younger Tony is wearing…is that Tony’s shirt? Obviously his previous clothes were also Tony’s, but Tony is pretty sure that’s the t-shirt he’s been missing for a few months. There’s a hole in the hem where DUM-E got stuck latching on and U had to pull him off like a crab.
Peter is rocking back and forth on his heels. “Do you need my help with something?” he asks, oddly excited. Not oddly. Peter is always excited about lab time. He’s a nerd. “With the machine? Or…with Doctor Strange?”
“Don’t speak his name in my presence,” Tony says with a sniff. “I can handle him myself, anyway.”
“Of course,” Peter says, doubtful.
“You kids having fun?” Tony asks pointedly.
“Well, I wouldn’t call it fun.” Peter looks over his shoulder at the boy spread out over his bed and barely bats an eye at the dark look he’s given. God, does Peter even recognize the look of someone who wants to fuck his brains out? Tony recognizes that look. It’s making his blood boil, actually. “Tony was telling me about some of the stuff he’s working on back home!”
“Oh, cool.” Tony snaps like he’s chasing a memory and says flippantly, “the 1998 Victoria Secret Catalog?”
His younger self smiles like a shark. “‘96, actually. I’m running a little behind.”
Peter rolls his eyes like it’s a joke. It’s not a joke. “It’s like talking to you,” he tells Tony, “only with even more references I pretend not to understand.”
Both Tonys say, “what?” at the same time, in the same cadence.
Peter laughs. “Come on. Did you need something?” He tilts his head, like a dog.
Tony clears his throat. “There are some people who are interested in meeting…me.”
“Oh?” Peter nibbles his lip. The weather’s been a bit cold, a bit dry, and he tears at the skin with his teeth. Tony mentally notes to ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. for more chapstick to put in Peter’s room. “Do you think…do you think that’s a good idea?”
“I’m a great conversationalist,” says Tony’s mini-me, stretching languidly on the bed and rolling to sit up so the shirt rides up on his stomach. It’s a practiced move, one Tony doesn’t need to use anymore. Hasn’t needed, after being with Pepper for so long until the blip, and now he has lots of money and a cool goatee. And an awesome suit. Seduction is easier than ever.
But Peter’s eyes drop to that bare stomach and Tony wants to growl because obviously it’s all fake and purposeful. So Tony thinks he should be excused for hooking a finger under Peter’s chin and turning his head right on his shoulders. “It’ll be easier to take care of with more minds on the matter.” He removes his hand as soon as Peter’s attention is back where it should be. “Plus, it will be very difficult to hide him in the tower when everyone is also in the tower and a super spy.”
“Spies?” Bare feet on the floor, Tony’s younger self (he really needs a better distinction) stands with a curl to his mouth. “Don’t we usually work on…bigger things? Shiny, flashy, fun.”
“Like what?” Tony asks. “Bombs?”
Peter makes a small sound in the back of his throat. “The spies aren’t related to the business,” he says evasively. “They’re family.” He turns to Tony, grabs his forearm and digs his nails into the skin like a warning. “Don’t judge him for something you also did,” in a hiss. “He just hasn’t learned yet.”
“I would never,” Tony chirps. “Learn, that is. Anyway—” He claps his hands. “Let’s go meet our honored guests, shall we?”
Steve is nosey, Barnes follows Steve, Sam is dragged in by Barnes, and Natasha is sitting on the floor with a cup of tea cleaning her guns. Rhodey and Banner are both out of town, and Wanda is, perhaps, too volatile to drag into this mess. Tony bodily presses Other Tony onto the couch in plain sight and leans over the back, elbows on the headrest. Peter perches on the armrest and quietly asks Natasha if there’s more hot water.
“Well, I’ll be fucked,” Sam says, holding out his hand for a shake. “Captain America, nice to meet you in the future. Name’s Sam. You’re going to have a terrible opinion of me.”
“Captain…” Younger Tony looks briefly at Steve before giving Sam a firm shake. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’m retired,” Steve explains, even though the set of his shoulders screams model military. “Just call me Steve.”
Tony snorts. If Tony’s remembering correctly, this is a crazy moment. Captain America was Howard’s golden era. For years, it was all he would talk about. Now Tony knows that it wasn’t the person Howard would rather have as a son, but the project. The Howard Stark that raised Tony would have hated Steve Rogers. He’s not sure if Steve ever figured that out. He knows he never figured out the Howard Stark that Steve would talk about. It was like they were two different people.
But, regardless, this younger man would probably fill Steve’s shampoo with hair removal cream at any moment, if he could get past the guard dogs.
Barnes doesn’t offer his name. Perhaps it’s for the best. Instead, he says, “you look softer.”
Peter is the only one who grins, coming back in with a mug of whatever Natasha had out. Steve hides a small smile and pats Barnes on the leg, like a reminder that most people with social skills that weren’t boiled out of their brains would probably need a segue of some sort. “He does look soft,” Peter agrees.
“I’m not soft,” Other Tony says, and the fact that it’s not a euphemism means he’s actually shocked.
“You are,” Barnes says, and then gestures with his metal arm. “It’s…the eyes.”
Tony sees the prosthetic catch the younger man’s eye, and then the words catch up. “I’m just not old,” he snipes. “It’s the wrinkles.”
“And the facial hair,” Steve offers.
“The gray,” says Natasha, taking a sip of her tea.
“You guys have been roasting me for too long,” Tony argues. “There’s literal fresh meat right here.”
“I think you look very distinguished, Mr. Stark.” Peter comes over to sit on the arm of the couch to Tony’s right, and Tony smells coconut and oolong. “You’re very handsome.”
“Peter is the only one who loves me,” Tony tells the room.
Peter coughs awkwardly into his tea.
“I’ve a meeting with Fury in about half an hour,” says Steve, checking the watch on his wrist. “But I thought it’d be a good idea to get to know each other a bit before we start poking and prodding around.”
“You can prod all you like,” Younger Tony says easily.
Oh, yeah. That was a thing. Tony forgot about that. “Blanket statement, but if he hits on you it’s not my fault. I do not endorse any of his actions.”
Peter tries to hide his laugh as another cough and doesn’t quite manage.
Tony spent the better part of his morning in the lab, trying to fix this problem before getting distracted by a million other problems. The hydroponics problem Stark Industries is working on hit a big enough stall that Pepper asked him to look into it, and then he spent thirty minutes drawing designs to turn the oven into a pretzel warmer before remembering that he hates the idea of uncooked yeast in his home. He’s pretty sure there’s yeast in pretzels.
Bruce can’t come back from wherever he is for another three days and Tony wants to have this taken care of by then, quite frankly. He missed Strange’s phone call but Peter dutifully gave him the Cliff notes, and he doesn’t want to deal with a wizard for any longer than he has to after the bullshit Stephen has pulled in the past.
Despite Tony’s intentions, by the time his younger self wanders into the lab Tony is elbow deep in one of the prettiest ladies in his car collection, grease on his neck.
When he hears the door slide open, he assumes that it’s Peter coming to assist or Barnes who still doesn’t like using F.R.I.D.A.Y and comes in to ask Tony where he put the remote. Tony isn’t even sure he has a remote.
“Hand me that thing, will ya?” He gestures vaguely towards his tool box. Peter will probably know what he means. Mechanics have never been his strong suit but he pays a lot of attention to the sorts of things Tony needs in the lab.
“Here.”
Tony pulls out from beneath the car in surprise around the same time he feels the torque wrench press into his palm. When he slides out he sees the underside of his own chin from back before he could actually grow a beard.
Younger Tony stands above him, trying to look surly, but Tony can tell that he’s trying not to look too interested in the set up. It’s impressive, even by modern standards. If someone had told him, back in the 90s, that he’d be able to fit the Internet in his pocket, well…he’d ask whether he had been the one to invent it. But he’d always been an asshole that way.
“Thanks.” Tony wipes his face, tosses the towel back over his shoulder, and slides back beneath the car. “Guess that answers how close we are in genetics, huh?” Same fingerprint. Tony makes a note to rework protocols with F.R.I.D.A.Y. later.
Speaking of F.R.I.D.A.Y., Tony hears her pointedly say, “would you like me to open the terminal, sir?”
“No,” he answers for her, finishing his small task before sliding back out and working his way to his feet. It takes a long time, these days. His knees aren’t friendly with the rest of his body and he has been seriously considering experimental procedures on his back but he hasn’t hit that point yet.
Younger Tony has his hand pressed unrepentantly to the terminal pad. “I just want to look. It’s all mine, anyway.”
“None of it’s yours.” Tony scowls. “F.R.I.D.A.Y. can give you the tour.”
“Your weird computer program?” Young Tony raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t have a single gray hair and he doesn’t even appreciate it. “What can she do besides tell me where the cups are?”
Tony snorts; the kid had been plenty impressed when F.R.I.D.A.Y. directed him this morning. “Fri, give him the usual.”
“Of course, sir.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. lights up the room and pulls up Tony’s test diagnostics on the terminal. Back when Tony worked with the government (officially, as opposed to now, where it’s just against his will) he’d set up a protocol to impress people without actually showing them much. It still works when he takes on a new consultation, but the kinds of people who ask Tony for help tend to know his resume.
His younger self will know it for what it is — some pretty lights and flash with little substance — but Tony thinks the technology will be novel enough to keep him occupied. He’s right enough, watching himself interact with the HUD in barely concealed wonder. It won’t work for very long but it will preoccupy Young Tony long enough for Tony to finish working on the car.
“So, you’re a superhero or something?” Young Tony says, and when Tony looks over he sees his young self pulling an image on the screen, fingers wiggling like he’s caught the itch.
“Or something,” Tony grunts, working on a valve. “I’m retired.”
“How’d that happen?”
“Got old.” Evidenced by the gray hair and the creaking knees.
“Meant the hero bit.” Young Tony turns the image upside down and makes a soft noise as it rights itself. “You’re like, me, right?” He snorts. “I’m not the type to jump between a gun and an idiot.”
Tony huffs, long and loud. “That’s more Peter’s gig,” he admits. Peter’s better than most people and Tony shouldn’t be surprised this kid doesn’t measure up. Tony doesn’t measure up, even after being in the business for fifteen years. “But…shit happens.” He rolls out, sits up and gives his younger self a once over. “Is that why you came down here to bother me? To ask how it happened?”
“I don’t care,” Young Tony says dismissively, even though they both know that Tony Stark wants to know everything. “It’s just a weird window into the future, is all. Like, when do I start going gray? Do I ever consider hair dye?”
“It’s not a fun story, kid,” Tony gruffs. It’s not. “I became better for it, but I still hope it doesn’t happen for you the way it happens for me.” He’s already told himself he’s not going to pry for the differences between them — is Obi still around, have your parents died yet, how many times have you had to switch therapists, that sort of thing. At 21, Tony already graduated twice and was living on his own, half-out of his mind unless Rhodey was there to peel him off of the floor. “It’s not a crime, making the easier choice.”
This kid has dark shadows under his eyes but he doesn’t look gaunt and haunted the way Tony thinks he does in the old tabloid photos. His hands shake a little as he works the HUD and he’s grumpy, but Tony’s dealt with worse. Tony’s been worse. “Doesn’t have to be fun to be a good story.”
“It’s neither.” Tony hopes that cuts off that thread of conversation, and he ushers them along quickly as he makes his way to the work sink to wash his hands. His nails are black and grimy. “I’m a genius, as you know, and the world just keeps getting scarier and scarier.” His shoulder is stiff in the socket. Old injuries make him feel older.
“Necessity breeds ingenuity, I guess.” Young Tony looks up at the ceiling. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., show me the suit.” He lowers his voice just a hair, a little gruffer.
Tony snorts.
“Which suit would you like to see?” F.R.I.D.A.Y. chirps.
“How many are there?”
“Of what kind of suit, sir? Spider-Man’s suit is currently on Mark 10. Iron Man’s suit is currently on Mark 73b.”
Young Tony whistles slowly. “Hard at work, old man.”
“I’ve had a lot of time on my hands,” Tony agrees. He leans against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. Most of those are just designs; in his free time Tony likes to invent things without worrying about their efficiency or usefulness. Tony made Mark 32b after a little girl asked him if he had a bubble wand in his suit.
“Show me the original Iron Man,” Young Tony tells the ceiling, neck craned unnaturally.
“Pulling Mark 2a,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. says, and brings up the specifications. That suit died in Malibu. It’s rudimentary compared to what Tony is working with now, but it was more streamlined and lighter. There are good things about the design. Maybe Tony should look it over again. He’s tired of the bulkiness these days, and he doesn’t get to the gym as often as he should to operate a giant metal coffin. He thinks Peter has the right idea, all graceful lines and fluidity, but Tony has old, brittle, human bones, so he can’t exactly get away with that.
“What happened to Mark 1?”
“There are no drawings for Mark 1,” Tony tells him. “It didn’t last very long, anyway. Only about 15 minutes.” He rubs his chest, heartburn. The scarring there is smooth through the thin material of his tank top. He feels the ridges of them with his fingers.
Luckily, that’s enough of an answer to curb his younger self’s curiosity. He quickly looks through and finds the most interesting part of the design — “What’s powering this?”
“Industry secret,” Tony tells him coolly and holds his hands out when he gets a sharp look in return. “You’ll figure it out eventually, if you want to once you go home.” The arc reactor feels like the lynch pin to Tony’s future, both the good and the bad. He wants to keep it to himself, selfishly, but it helps that it’s the smart thing to do.
Younger Tony hums. He holds out both hands and begins the process of figuring out how a touchscreen works. “Maybe I don’t want to go home,” he says casually. “It’s more fun here, anyway.”
Tony’s heart gets a little colder. “Why? So you have more time to fuck my intern?” It’s a surprise to both of them when he says it. It comes out unbidden and brusque, and Tony stops himself from growling when this stupid kid just laughs like Tony didn’t mean it.
“Peter makes things a little sweeter, man,” Young Tony admits. “I don’t think I’ll need too much time to convince him.” He looks at Tony, and Tony wants to punch him in the face so badly his knuckles crack. “You think he’s just some kid? You pretending it’s true to feel better when you coddle him?” A smart tongue pokes out from between his teeth. “You couldn’t handle Peter. You’d break a hip.”
Tony doesn’t want to think about fucking Peter. So he won’t. “You’re going home. Do you have any idea how hard it is to have a second egomaniac around here? That’s why Steve gets his own floor.”
Young Tony shrugs and goes back to scrolling, more interested in the motion than the mechanics on the screen. “Better work hard then, buddy, if you want to get rid of me before I steal your boy.”
Peter isn’t Tony’s boy. Or, he is Tony’s boy but not the way he’s…
Well, Peter isn’t Anthony’s boy. Not in any way. Tony refuses to think about why the idea lights him on fire in the worst way. And he certainly refuses to think about why he couldn’t deny it to Anthony’s face.
As a child, and a teenager, and whatever he was when he graduated from college for the first time at the age of 17, Tony was used to being the smartest person in the room. Even his father, though it burned him to think about, had nothing on the speed that Tony processed information, twisted it, and spit it out.
When he matured he surrounded himself by people who could match him. Pepper, Bruce, Helen Cho, Reed Richards, and many others that he isn’t friendly with but itches to bounce ideas off of. Even Steve and Sam, who are not scientists, are highly intelligent — even if their strengths don’t line up with Tony’s own. Maybe that’s even better.
But back when he was young, he didn’t know how important that was. He spent his day with his chin up, daring anyone to talk to him. Try to get on his level. Try to match him in any way. And when that got exhausting, he drank himself stupid and challenged people in other ways. Break him, he wants you to try your hardest. Distract him if you can. Catch his eye, just to say you did it. And once that got old, he went after sweet things that had no business being his.
“You’re…serious?”
It’s three in the morning, and Peter had crawled in through the window from patrol to find Tony sprawled out at the kitchen table, drawing diagrams in the air with his fingers. He hadn’t shaved that day but he did manage that second pot of coffee. And a third. He’s not sure what number he’s on. He’d been work-binging before this started and now he’s got a mystery machine and his worst self in his guest room. The twelve hour nap he took will just propel him to further heights, probably.
Peter had sat down and started shoving a screwdriver into his web shooters to pry the casing off. He often joined Tony silently late at night, even if common sense and outside responsibilities said he should hurry to sleep after a night on the town. Tony was never sure if it was to keep Tony company or to wind down after the adrenalin, but he never bothered to ask. It’s nice having Peter around, loud or quiet.
Now, Peter is staring at him incredulously. It’s the same look he gives Tony when Tony tells him to stay behind. When they first met, it was disappointment and rebellion; now, it tends to be more cutting. Why</em> would they leave Peter behind when he is the strongest, hardiest, best of them?
Peter would never suggest any of that but Tony knows that it’s true.
“He hasn’t done anything, though?” Peter says slowly, like he’s trying to feel Tony out.
Tony can’t blame him. He’d just interrupted an hour long silence telling Peter to be careful about his younger self, after all. “He will,” Tony says darkly. He thinks about that easy way his younger self laid things out in the lab just earlier today. “Trust me; I know him better than anyone. It’s only a matter of time.”
Peter is shaking his shooters, trying to dislodge a glob of webbing that gooped up from the rain. Tony makes a mental note to make adjustments the next time they work on them. “You know I could break his arm at any time, right?”
Tony snorts. “You would never.”
“You would never.” Peter rolls his eyes. “I’m just some guy, Mr. Stark. He told me he missed a date with Miss America to get plopped into the future. I’m not exactly his type.”
“You’re exactly his type,” Tony hisses. Young and pretty and sweet and something he shouldn’t have. Something to ruin. Something that might, despite Tony trying not to think about it, want to be ruined. Tony’s fingers twitch on the table between them.
Peter pauses in his tinkering to look at Tony through his lashes. His mouth purses. “Well, I guess beggars can’t be choosers. He doesn’t have many options since he ghosted Miss America 1998.” He’s the only one around that Young Tony can interact with, and the only one close in age. Which isn’t Tony’s point at all. “Anyway, who cares?”
“Who cares?” Tony repeats, incredulous. Peter Parker blushes when someone mentions coitus. Usually it’s Vision, because no one else would ever call it coitus because that’s a ridiculous word, but Peter still blushed. “I’m trying to preserve your honor here, kid.”
“My honor is all over the underside of the school bleachers, Mr. Stark,” Peter responds wryly. It’s so sudden and unexpected that whatever Tony had been prepared to snap back gets stuck in his throat. Even more so when Peter’s eyes turn fluttery and innocent, in a put-on sort of way. “Where did you leave yours?”
If this is a game, Tony knows how to play. He leans forward on his elbows, pushing the specs aside to get as close to Peter as possible. Tony wants Peter to understand this, to take it seriously. “I left it with a very pretty boy, just like you, in a bathroom in Vermouth.”
Peter is extremely still. His long fingers still on the mechanism trigger. There’s a purpling bruise under his eye but the edge is turning green even as Tony stares at him. “A boy?” Softly. Those eyelashes flutter.
“I know you’re my biggest fan, kid,” Tony admits, “but you’ve only ever seen what PR wants you to see.”
“Sex tapes included?” Peter asks, all cheek and lowered lashes, but he finally meets Tony’s eye and his pupils are blown.
Tony swallows, thick in his throat. “Are you admitting to seeing my sex tapes?” If there’s one thing that Tony has mastered over the years, it’s sounding cocksure with no surety at all. Thinking about Peter seeing his sex tapes makes the weird nerves in Tony’s stomach fray.
Peter leans in, too, and their foreheads nearly brush. Peter smells like sweat and New York air, not fresh but free, and his grin is so wicked it looks like it belongs on someone else’s face. “I’m a young, gay man in STEM,” he says conspiratorially, like he’s giving away a secret. “We’ve all seen your sex tape. Why do you think I wanted to go into science in the first place?”
Peter, younger even than now, tossing around in his childhood bedroom with a hand on cock and Tony’s body plastered on the computer screen, fucking into some blond and groaning a name that he’d surely forgotten in the morning. Maybe it was the first time Peter touched himself, the first time he realized he envied the woman rather than the man. Fingers slick, exploring, the first time, all flushed and breathy and confused and oh, Mr. Stark—
Tony clears his throat.
“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Stark,” Peter is saying, leaning back in his chair and finally digging out the clog with the end of his fingernail. He flicks it onto the floor and gives Tony a considering look. “I’ve been handling you for years. I can handle him just fine.”
“I’m sure you can,” Tony agrees. His throat is really dry, for some reason. “I trust you.”
He just doesn’t trust himself. He doesn’t trust himself at all.